


Spirited Rhetoric

by bhaer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Combeferre's verbal smackdowns, Courfeyrac is a big dumb butt, Feelings, Gen, Marijuana usage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/pseuds/bhaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Perhaps I wouldn’t have spent my Saturday night stitching you together had you used some common sense and put the Republic before your own amusement.”</p><p>Courfeyrac gets needlessly injured; Combeferre has some sharp words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirited Rhetoric

“You are an idiot.”

The world around Courfeyrac was muddled in a sea of colors and bursting lights, but Combeferre’s voice was clear.

Struggling to make sense of the hazy abyss he had apparently fallen into, Courfeyrac struggled to think of a response appropriately witty to counter Combeferre and instead leaned to his side and vomited a great quantity of bile.

There was a gasp in the background and an unintelligible, husky voice asking something about brandy and a trembling female voice crying about linens or something and Courfeyrac let himself freely fall into the hysteria around him.

Only Combeferre’s voice was clear.

“No, this works perfectly. Feuilly, can you bring me a basin of water. That’s wonderful. Mademoiselle Labbé, would you happen to have any rags you wouldn’t mind ruining in the service of a friend?”

There was a short response that Courfeyrac couldn’t make out.

So he was with Feuilly and the infamous Feuilly’s mistress, who had never been given a name that wasn’t an almost loving “she-demon”. Courfeyrac wished he could see clearly. He wished he could make something out that wasn’t red. Maybe he was blinded. That didn’t worry him as much as it should. He found his curiosity at Feuilly’s mistress was greater than any concern for his physical wellbeing.

“Don’t worry; he isn’t mad, I think he’s simply lost a lot of blood.” Combeferre was assuring someone. Good old Combeferre. Courfeyrac found it odd that while everyone else’s voices were heard as if from miles away, a series of inaudible sounds, Combeferre’s was clear as day, the only thing anchoring him to consciousness.

Something unspeakably cold on his hands. Courfeyrac struggled against the icy grip. There was a panicked sound.

“That won’t be necessary. Yes, he’ll likely be found at the Musain. I’d appreciate it if he was brought here without any fuss, there’s no need to worry the others. Enjolras should have received my note by now.”

A door slammed shut and Courfeyrac swore he could feel it reverberate in his bones.

There was a stinging in his side and a sharp tug, then the hallucinations that had been threatening to explode took over from reality.

 

When Courfeyrac woke up, he found himself in a small, dingy sort of room. The only thing that kept it from appearing completely grim were the collection of old newspaper articles that plastered the walls. He focused on one at his eye level. It was an opinions piece blasting Napoleon and the edges curled yellow from age.

“You owe a certain Catherine Labbé several francs worth of linens that you ruined.” A cheerful voice said. Courfeyrac turned his head; his left side shuddered in pain. Combeferre was poking at the pitiful fire with a smile.

“I apologize if getting bayoneted ruined Feuilly’s interior design. If I die, please let Mademoiselle Labbé know that I keep my purse under my mattress. Pontmercy will let her in and she can help herself to as much money as she wants.” Courfeyrac said. His head throbbed and his side stung and his feet were awfully sore but he was also surprisingly comfortable. He remembered, in a vague way, the events of the day before and found himself rather pleased with his own bravery. Nearly being gutted wasn’t the perfect resolution to a supposedly peaceful protest, but it also had a certain air of heroism to it.

“As much as it pains me to say this, there’s no danger of you slipping into the night, as Jehan would say. Your wound isn’t deep at all. Even Joly had to admit it, though he wants you to know that he intends to leech you everyday this week.” Combeferre said, throwing down the poker with frustration as the fire refused to start.

“Joly was here?” Courfeyrac asked. It annoyed him to think that his little adventure, seeming less heroic by the second, had brought any worry to their resident hypochondriac. Poor Joly probably suffered double what Courfeyrac had in anxiety.

“I wanted him to inspect the wound. Enjolras stopped by as well, as did Bahorel and Jehan.”

“How long was I out?” Courfeyrac cried, horrified. A sudden image appeared of him lying, saint like and immobile while a stream of mourners stood around him, offering their respects.

“Nearly twelve hours. It’s almost lunchtime so I’ll be out soon to meet Grantaire.” Combeferre said.

Courfeyrac leaned back against his pillows, elated. He was touched that in one night, so many of his friends had rushed over to see him. All remaining worry as to his condition was quickly falling away. Combeferre would never leave him alone if there was any danger at all. Maybe he _had_ behaved bravely.

“Why do I remember so many… colors?” Courfeyrac asked.

Combeferre raised his eyebrows.

“I saw Grantaire earlier today at the Luxembourg. He attributed such imaginings to the copious amount of hashish the two of you smoked before gracing us all with your presence. I confess I was concerned with the way you rambled on all day. Feuilly was convinced you were dying of a fever.” Combeferre’s face was cold and stern but his voice betrayed his amusement. Courfeyrac smiled.

“I cannot believe Grantaire would tell such lies about my character.” Courfeyrac cried in false protest even as he remembered taking long, bitter drags on Grantaire's pipe.

“I can’t believe you would risk your life so foolishly.” Combeferre said. His voice was harsh now and Courfeyrac found himself sinking back into the bed.

“I had no idea things would turn violent.” Courfeyrac muttered weakly.

“That was a risk and you knew it. Perhaps I wouldn’t have spent my Saturday night stitching you together had you used some common sense and put the Republic before your own amusement.” Combeferre snapped.

Courfeyrac felt sick and guilty and most of all, unspeakably stupid. It wasn’t something he felt often and he found himself grasping for a way to turn the conversation around.

“I’m sorry. It was wrong of me.” Courfeyrac said simply, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking too much. Combeferre would despise any attempt to elicit sympathy from him.

“I _hope_ you’re sorry. You’ll be up in a few days but you easily could have been killed.”

Combeferre’s disapproval hurt like a slap across the face. Courfeyrac had an urge to list all the times he _hadn’t_ gotten high before attending a protest but also felt like crying and begging for forgiveness. He had watched Combeferre's verbal attacks dozens of times but had never been on the recieving end of one before. It was awful.

“I’m going to get lunch with Grantaire, who was smart enough to leave when things turned violent because he knew he was in no state to fight. _Grantaire_ behaved more sensibly than you did.” Combeferre hissed, picking up his hat off a chair.

“I don’t suppose you’ll bring me back anything to eat.” Courfeyrac muttered.

Combeferre turned around at the door, his face softening.

“I don’t intend to starve you to death after saving your life.” He said, with only a hint of a grin. Courfeyrac relaxed. This was not a serious fight, then. This was one of Combeferre’s lectures, like when Joly miscalculated the amount of bullets they had or Bahorel skipped class everyday for two weeks. He had not seriously ruined their friendship.

“Thank you.” Courfeyrac said. He knew to offer false apologies would only annoy Combeferre more. 

“We all know you’d give your life to the Republic. There was no need to prove anything.” Combeferre said suddenly. Courfeyrac sheepishly looked at his hands.

“I was stupid.” Courfeyrac murmured.

“I don’t disagree. Just… don’t throw away your life needlessly. I would rather miss your… spirited rhetoric.”

And with that, Combeferre was gone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, this is pure fluff. I was intending to write something SERIOUS and GRIM for Barricade Day and then I collapsed under the weight of all of my feelings and spat this out. 
> 
> I think Combeferre has a crush, which is amuses me more than it should. 
> 
> I am 90% sure that everything remotely medical in this is wrongwrongwrong. I'm not a doctor.
> 
> The moral of this sickeningly sweet story is do not do drugs before overthrowing the state. You'll make Combeferre sad.


End file.
